


Garbage at the Edge of Dawn

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Boy wants Boy





	Garbage at the Edge of Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Garbage at the Edge of Dawn By MustangSally

25 October 1998  
TITLE: Garbage at the Edge of Dawn  
AUTHOR:   
CLASSIFICATION: M/K Slash  
CONTENT WARNING: NC-17 for concepts  
SUMMARY: Boy wants Boy  
SPOILER WARNING: Sleepless  
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer - others with permission  
THE DISCLAIMER: "Take it, take another little piece of my heart now, baby."   
DEDICATION: For Rye who pressed the gun to my head with unspoken challenge.

* * *

Garbage at the Edge of Dawn  
By MustangSally

Diner walls lapped by neon through the tired night, a ring of coffee, a frosting of ash, and the stickiness of old syrup. And I sit watching his lip stroke thick side of a cup, wanting to be that cup, wanting to watch his head fall back like Ophelia in water surrender. Pretty eyes, pretty, pretty eyes with girl lashes look over a white cup thick as a bleached femur. I see that his hand is shaking, and I think it is from Preacher, but I want it to be from me.

I want.

God, if I believed in you, I would ask you only for this.

This selfish want.

I know all about want, it should be my middle name, I know all about wanting warmth, food, bread, meat, and love. The necessities of life. Shoes that don't burn with cold from the hole in the sole, shoes bought precious after a lifetime or three queued on streets gray and drab. I can look through the shop window and see what I want time and time again, and he blinks back at me with eyes as clear and untouchable as the cabochons on a Faberge egg. My brain is bobbing like a drowning sailor on the tide of tired. Without the tired I wouldn't let the merman sing to me like this.

I watch fingers like Durer's praying hands butter toast and under the table, the blind worm in my trousers becomes a shining pole of chrome, glittering in the tired light. Does he know? Does he? Has he? Or are the thoughts in my head as alien as anything thickening his brain with their eyes of obsidian glass? Has he? Does he? Only his hairdresser knows for sure. 

Lovely hair, that, shining like sable in the lights, sables raised for the beauty of their fur, denying the vicious carnivore of their nature, electrocuted by current applied through the anus, to preserve the fur. And thinking of the sable, yes the red sable the color of his name, squealing in pain and death as the electricity runs through their bodies is almost enough to make me spurt underneath the table. I am ashamed and I look at the table.

Crumbs.

All I get is crumbs.

Discards, a dead man's clothes, a dead man's life, I am a dead man -living in the shell of a dead man's life. I answer to his name, pay his student loan bills, and live in the dead man's apartment, small by their standards but luxurious by mine. I grew up in an apartment that size, with eight others, drunk parents, lazy siblings, comatose grandparents, tried to study while they fought and argued, drank and sang while I studied my English grammar in the closet in the bedroom. 

Closet. That's what they call it here, in the closet.

I've been in one closet or another all my life.

I'm a great faker, sometimes I fool myself. Across the table, he looks up for a moment and flashes me one of the rueful smiles which makes a stab cut through the muscle of my chest like I've been opened by that stubby woman of his - the one with scalpel eyes.

"D'you ever have bad dreams, Alex?"

I wonder why he used by first name. "Do you?" he asked as though we were on separate sides of an interview table.

"I don't dream bad dreams, Agent Mulder."

I live them.

End


End file.
